


Unscripted

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Drama, First Time, Happy Ending, Humor, M/M, Porn, Pornstars, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-07 23:38:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark is too volatile and contrary to be a porn star. It's too bad he’s also incapable of taking no for an answer; Steve’s in for one hell of a ride. (AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not a porn star. sorry about that, and please pardon any inaccuracies.

When Steve was younger, he saw a lady get her purse snatched, right on the sidewalk of a busy street. There must have been a dozen people who turned at her yell, but Steve was the only one who moved: he left Bucky behind when he took after the thief, elbowed his way through the crowd and gave chase until it felt like his lungs were going to collapse and chest cave in.

All in all, it had amounted to about two blocks.

Bucky found him a few minutes later, doubled over and wheezing for breath. 

“I almost had him,” Steve said between puffs of his inhaler, and Bucky hooked an arm around his waist and said, fond and exasperated as only he ever was: “Yeah, buddy. I know you did.”

Bucky, Steve thinks grimly, should see him now.

He grabs the man’s shoulder and yanks him back, throws his considerable weight into pinning him to the wall. People around them scatter with vague murmurs of displeasure, and this close Steve can see the thief is more boy than man, wide-eyed and terrified. 

“Drop it,” Steve barks, and the briefcase he’d lifted falls from nerveless fingers. 

“Yes, thank you,” someone says, and Steve turns to find the target of the lift, looking remarkably unruffled in a pinstripe suit. He picks up his briefcase and gives Steve a once-over before gracing him with a bland smile. 

“Well, I don’t think I’ll press charges,” he says, “so why don’t you let that little guy go, and let me buy you lunch?”

* * *

The man’s name is Phil, and he doesn’t take no for an answer.

Lunch turns out to be some sort of curry in a nearby restaurant Steve’s always been too broke to try. It’s the cheapest thing on the menu but still manages to taste expensive, spicy and full of so much flavor it makes Steve feel kind of guilty. He chews slowly and tries not to notice how carefully he’s being watched.

“How’s your, uh, fish?” he asks, nodding at Phil’s plate. He thinks it’s fish. It looks like fish.

“A little milder than what I’m used to,” Phil says, taking a healthy bite. Steve stares, and reaches for his nearly empty glass of water.

“I’m sweating bullets here,” he admits, and Phil smiles.

“Not fond of Thai?”

“Never had it before. Anything you can microwave, though, I’ve had that.” Steve looks down at his plate. It might have made his eyes water, but it’s the best food he’s had in a while. “Listen, it was nice of you to offer, but I can’t let you pay for this.” 

“You don’t think whatever’s in this,” Phil says, tapping his briefcase, “is worth more than rice and curry?”

Steve frowns and opens his mouth to answer, but Phil beats him to it, sliding the briefcase onto the table.

“You’re not curious?” he asks, and it takes Steve a second to realize what he means.

He shrugs. It seems standard issue; there’s a Stark Industries logo on the front, so whatever it is, it’s something to do with the corporation. “None of my business.”

“That wasn’t my question,” Phil says, and pops the lock. They’re at a corner table, but the place isn’t exactly deserted; Phil doesn’t seem to care, and Steve leans in despite himself. 

So maybe he’s a little curious.

“Huh.” Steve tilts his head. “What is it?”

It looks like a shiny, metal egg. There’s some sort of etching on the surface, like maybe it’s supposed to come apart, and what seems like a little tablet in the compartment besides it. Stark Industries is famed for its innovation, and they’ve come up with things that have amazed Steve in the past, but he can’t for the life of him figure out what this is supposed to be. 

“It’s a vibrator,” Phil says, and Steve’s mouth drops open. “A bit more advanced than you would find on the market, of course—wireless, programmable to a ridiculous degree, and there’s this neat trick where it can expand to three times this size.” He strokes it with the tip of his forefinger and looks almost fond. “I’d show you, but this one’s a dud.” 

“What.” 

“A dud. I had a feeling I was going to be intercepted today.” He snaps the briefcase shut and looks up expectantly. Whatever he sees on Steve’s face makes him reach for his fish. 

“Right,” Steve says eventually, proud of how steady he sounds, “you’re going to have to give me a little more than that, Phil.”

“I work for S.H.I.E.L.D. You might have heard of us. No? We’re an adult entertainment company with somewhat of a specialty in tech.” 

Steve blanches. “Adult—” 

“Porn.”

“Tech?”

“Toys.” Phil polishes off the rest of his fish and gestures for a waiter. “Expensive and intelligent, but ultimately, toys. Check, please.” He waits until the table’s cleared before fixing Steve with a look. “I scout for the studio, among other things. I think we could have something here.”

Steve’s mind trips from the vibrating egg to adult entertainment to how he’d let so much curry go to waste. _Toys._ He was being scouted. For _porn._

He should’ve eaten faster.

“I’m sorry,” he says, when he claws his way through the jumble of thoughts. “You’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t—I don’t do that.”

“You could start. You’ve got the body and the face,” Phil says, casual, not even bothering to whisper. “But more importantly, you have this—” He falters for the first time since Steve’s met him. “This wholesome quality, which, to be frank, is entirely alien to me. But it works.”

Steve tries not to picture Phil picturing him in porn, and fails. 

“I—look. Thanks. That’s great. Flattering. But I’m really not—” He struggles for the word. Interested? Crazy? What comes out is, “—experienced.” 

His ears burn, and Steve knows he’s turning red, but Phil doesn’t give any indication of noticing. 

“Don’t need to be,” he says. “Solo shoots are a go. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” He goes silent as the waiter approaches, and Steve takes the chance to take out his wallet, pulling out his share. Phil gives him a look over the money, entirely too calculating to belong on his otherwise unassuming face, and Steve squares his shoulders. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, because Phil was probably banking on him, and it’s not his fault Steve’s not that guy, not capable of _being_ that guy, “and thank you for lunch, but the answer is no.” 

Phil takes the rejection with an easy little nod, like he didn’t just waste the last half hour on him. Steve nods back awkwardly and extends his hand, lets out a breath when Phil shakes it with a smile. 

He makes it halfway across the street before he realizes he forgot to leave a tip.

Phil’s just getting up when he gets back, and he doesn’t look at all surprised to see Steve, not even when he fumbles with the money. He pulls a business card out of thin air, black and conspicuous. 

“It pays well,” he says, setting the card on the table and turning to leave. “In case you change your mind.”

S.H.I.E.L.D. STUDIOS, it says. Quality entertainment. 

Steve grimaces, and pockets it before the waiter can. 

* * *

It’s not about the money. 

Steve might not be able to afford eating out every night of the week—or any—but that doesn’t mean he’s destitute. He has his own place: small and drafty, but his for the rest of the month. There’s some sort of growth in the closet, and the windows don’t close all the way, but it’s got a good view of a busy parking lot. He has cable and internet and sure, he’s not exactly living it up, but then again, when has he ever?

Besides, he already has a job. It’s not the most glamorous one, playing security guard for a run down antique shop, but it’s something. If he occasionally feels like he’s cheating Mrs. Molinsky out of her money—because no one’s going to rob her of her old junk, and Steve loves that stuff, but it’s junk of the _worst sort_ —he assuages the guilt by playing advertising agency for her on the side, printing out flyers to hand off to unsuspecting pedestrians.

He has a routine. He’s comfortable. Content. 

And that card is burning a hole in his pocket. 

Steve knows what he looks like. Passing by a mirror doesn’t make him do a double-take anymore, not like it did for the first few months after he shot up four inches and grew a set of shoulders overnight. Steve’s not that skinny kid with the limp hair and wide swing anymore; he’s bigger. And he does alright, but he’s not anyone people would pay to watch—doesn’t have the presence or the charm. He’s too quiet and private and prim; he grew up with his grandmother in a tiny squeeze of a flat in Brooklyn, and she is far more hip than him. 

The thought makes him grin foolishly, before it reminds him of her bad hip. He ends up calling her right then, settled on an ancient lawn chair outside the shop while Mrs. Molinsky putters about inside. 

She picks up and tells him to call back later, it’s lunch time. 

“What are you cooking?” he asks, because he doesn’t want to hang up. He’s miles away and making it on his own. He misses her.

“Oh, you know,” she says, and he can hear the whir of a fan behind her. It’s a hot summer. “Just throwing things into the pot.” 

She’s a liar; it’s more likely she’s making pizza and doesn’t want Steve to know. His stomach grumbles and he tells her as much, listens to her weak denials with a smile. 

“Why haven’t you replied to my email?” she demands abruptly, changing the subject, and Steve is struck by a sudden vision of her on the computer, watching him in porn. He chokes on horror before he can convince himself of how absurd that is, and his mind spins from Nana to Mrs. Molinsky, to Jimmy the landlord, to Jimmy’s _kids._

“Steven?” 

“I’m here,” he manages, shaking his head to rid himself of the mental image. It doesn’t budge. He’s losing it over something that hasn’t even happened yet— _won’t_ happen, ever. “But I have to go. I will, um, I’ll reply tonight.”

He hangs up with a rushed goodbye and buries his face in his hands. He might not be experienced, but he has enough sense to know that a studio whose scouts wear suits won’t be giving anything away for free. The thought of his grandmother subscribing to a porn site is enough to break him out of the spiral and make him laugh, albeit a little hysterically. 

Passersby give him worried looks and Steve schools his face back to boredom. He finds himself turning to stare at his reflection in the window. He’s—yeah, he’s bigger all right. His shoulders strain against his shirt, but his mouth looks soft. It’s ridiculous; he flushes, even as his head begins to buzz with possibilities. He’s seen porn—not a lot, but then it’s all pretty much the same—and the men and women in it, they’re old-hand. 

They’re _performers_ and Steve—really isn’t. It would be like having to act out a script in a foreign language. The virgin, a porn star. It sounds like a punchline.

He wasn’t made for this, and he knows it, but something in him rebels at the thought of being told he can’t, even if it’s by himself: the same something that dragged him into fights and to the gym and out of his hometown. The harder he insists he shouldn’t, the louder it gets, until Steve’s biting the corner of his mouth and flipping the card between his fingers, words blurring in front of his eyes.

He’s done some dumb things, but this would take the cake. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. 

If Bucky was here, he would ask him what he thought he was trying to prove. Steve wouldn’t answer, but as he sits there staring at the printed address, he thinks it wouldn’t hurt to keep trying.

* * *

S.H.I.E.L.D. Studios masquerades as a large office building from the outside. Unfortunately, the carefully trimmed shrubbery and tinted windows don’t do anything to keep him from feeling like he’s stepping into a den of iniquity, and he wipes damp palms on his jeans before opening the door.

He finds a large, airy room, occupied by a pretty girl who is possibly a porn star. There’s a huge desk, and couches that make him want to sit down. Security cameras leer at him from every corner, and Steve angles his face away, thinking he might throw up. 

Too bad there’s no trash can in sight. He’s eyeing the potted plant closest to him when the girl speaks up, sudden and loud. 

“Hey, stud,” she says, leaning over the desk with a grin. Her glasses are slipping off her nose and Steve is oddly charmed, even through his nerves. “Are you my four o’clock?” 

“No, um. I don’t have an appointment. Sorry. I’m looking for Phil Coulson? He gave me a card.” It looks insignificant in his hand, frayed and creased from his attentions. It’s been two weeks. He wouldn’t be surprised if Phil didn’t even remember who he was. 

But the girl says, “Oh!” and, “Oh, yeah, you’re that guy, with the thing, in the place. Steve, right?” She waves a hand and dimples. “Hold on, I think I can pencil you in.”

There aren’t any pencils on her desk. Steve wipes a hand across his mouth and gives himself a hard mental shake. He’s not backing out now, no matter how badly he’s started to sweat. 

“Come on, let’s get you settled.”

He straightens and follows her she gestures, gets a whiff of her strawberry gum when she pops it. Her teeth are very white, and Steve swipes his tongue over his own absentmindedly. His breath probably smells like the Hot Pocket he had for lunch. Maybe he should just—not open his mouth.

“Have a seat, okay?” she says, nodding at a large, white sofa. It’s set in front of a window, curtains drawn, and the only thing in the room, aside from some recording equipment. Everything looks pristine; Steve feels like he’s dirtying it just by breathing. “Take your shoes off, relax. We’ll be with you in a minute. Just don’t start whacking off yet.”

Steve takes in the serious set of her mouth and gives up. “Thanks. I’ll, uh, try not to.”

That gets him a grin. Steve lets out a slow breath when she leaves, and with it all his misgivings. He still feels jumpy, a little like he’s going to come out of his skin, but some of the tension leaves his shoulders. He’s here, and bad idea or not, he’s going to make the best of it.

He brushes off the seat of his pants before perching on the edge of the sofa, just in case, but isn’t prepared for how comfortable it is, the perfect balance of soft and firm. He finds himself leaning back on the cushions, and oh, that’s good. He squirms a little, and spreads his legs. He’s thinking he could fall asleep like this when the sharp click-clack of heels jolts him back from his drifting, vaguely distressing half-thoughts. There’s a woman standing in front of him, tall and dark-haired.

“Steve?” At his nod, she smiles. It’s the same sort of smile that he found on Phil’s face: vague and unconcerned. “I’m Maria Hill, the casting director for your session.” 

He shakes her hand; she’s got a firm grip. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says politely. “But I was hoping I could talk to Phil? Is he, um. Busy?”

“Phil? No, he’s not busy.” She shrugs. “He thought you would be more comfortable with a woman.”

“I’m not,” Steve blurts, and then winces. “Not like that, I mean—I—both.” 

“Well,” she says, as if he made any sense whatsoever, “that makes things easier. We do the occasional bisexual scene, but our studio is primarily geared towards men. You’re here for a solo, of course, but I would like you to be aware of who your audience will be.”

“The few who can afford the membership?” Steve hazards. At Maria’s eyebrow, he flushes. “I saw your website. It’s—pricey.” 

“It’s _quality_ ,” Maria corrects, but she looks amused. “And how we can afford to pay you for your time. Three hundred up front, and the other three if we decide to use the footage.”

Steve doesn’t choke, but it’s a close call. That much money could feed him Thai for weeks. 

“We like to keep things organic,” she continues. “Just do whatever you feel comfortable with. The only stipulation is that Barton should be able to get a good shot.” 

Barton looks up from fiddling with the camera and gives him a short wave. “You can make my job easier by taking off your pants.”

Maria goes on like he never spoke. “We’d like you to remove your shirt as well, and try not to look so tense. You can ask me whatever you like, whenever you like; we’re quite good at editing. Now, unless you have any questions, we’ll begin.”

Steve nods; he doesn’t think he can manage anything else. His throat is tight, face hot, and as the ball of nerves in him expands, he wonders in a panic if he’ll even be able to—perform. The thought makes him flustered, makes him clumsy, and his shirt gets stuck around his ears. He’s suffocated by cotton for the seconds it takes him to yank it off, smell of sweat and detergent in his nose, and he’s almost sorry when it’s gone, unnerved by the eye of the camera. 

He fumbles with the button on his jeans, shimmies his way out of them. He stares at the floor, at his hands, at Maria’s shoes, the delicate bones of her ankles. He kicks the jeans off and hesitates: what’s the etiquette here? Does he pick them up? Fold them? Leave them lying in a puddle on the floor? Maria moves with Barton around the room and that camera is fixed on him, sees every swallow and flush and aborted movement. 

“What do I—” he starts. It comes out a hoarse whisper. “Where do I look?”

“Anywhere you’d like,” Maria says promptly. “Some people stare straight into the lens, others look off into the distance. You can look at me if you need cues, if you find that easier.”

If he looks at her this show will end before it even starts. “Can I close my eyes?”

Maria is silent for long enough that he chances a glance in her direction. She’s frowning, but then her face smooths out and she gives a little shrug. “If you’d like.” 

Boy, would he. He tries to make it seem gradual, natural, instead of squeezing his eyes shut like he’s been pepper sprayed. He has this under control. There’s wild colours behind his eyelids, and he tracks their tangles until breathing comes easier and he can slump back against the couch, hook his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs and tug them down. 

He’s still soft, but the brush of his fingers makes his stomach tighten and blood turn south in a slow, dizzy wave. Sweat cools on his skin and makes it prickle. He can hear the sound of his own breathing, shaky and uneven, the click of his throat when he swallows. One hand remains tangled in his briefs, loath to let go.

“You can keep them on,” Maria says, “just hook them under your balls,” so matter-of-fact it makes Steve go red. He can feel the blush spreading over his throat but does as she says, and turns even more red at her murmur of approval. 

All it takes is the loose curl of a hand to make him stiffen up, and then it’s autopilot, instinctive. Maria’s gone silent, and he’s thankful: it makes it easier to lose himself in the steady pull, the weak contraction of muscles that’ll grow steadily stronger. The floor is cold under his bare feet, but he’s burning up everywhere else, over-sensitized and panting. He’s being loud. He bites his lip, but the sounds are coming from his chest, deep and wounded, and he can stop them as much as he can keep his hand from moving. 

He tightens his grip and wonders if the camera will catch his toes curl. 

He wants to slide a hand up to his chest, to the sensitive skin of his neck—doesn’t know if it’s allowed. It takes a moment, maybe two, to decide he doesn’t care. His nipples have gone tight and he rubs at them helplessly while the other hand pumps, faster now, thumb brushing against his slit. He can hear Maria walking across the floor; she’s closer now, and he’s just— _close,_ everything gone quick and tight and inevitable.

“Steve,” Maria says, sharp and sudden, and Steve’s eyes snap open to find the camera right in front of him, on him as he starts to come in great, wrenching pulls. Come hits his chest, pools warm and sticky in his hand; he tosses his head back on the couch, stares sightlessly at the ceiling, and rides it out. 

When he can muster enough strength, he sits up to find Maria watching him, an unreadable look on her face. Steve clears his throat, feeling sleepy and sticky and like he’s two seconds from blushing again.

“Can I, um. Can I get some tissues?”

“Just wipe it on the couch,” Barton suggests.

 _"Do not,"_ Maria snaps, as if Steve actually might. Barton laughs, and it’s infectious; even Maria’s mouth quirks up at the corner, and Steve finds himself feeling like this was the right fight to pick, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

Tony can usually be found swaying to the tune of heavy 80’s metal and occasionally wailing along. The daily grind starts with Ozzy and ends with Jesus and a Hotrod; music booms as soon as he walks into the workshop and keeps booming until Pepper decrees otherwise, and sometimes not even then. There’s a soundtrack for every occasion, and he’s familiar with the shake and slam of it, the rush. Craves it.

So this—what’s going on right now? It’s messing him up a little bit.

“Jarvis, volume.”

The heavy breathing gets heavier. Tony scrubs a hand over his mouth and tries to wait it out. It gets better, he knows that much, but fuck, the kid is quiet. Tony doesn’t know if it’s a part of his image—they’re milking the virgin angle until it cries for mercy, but from Tony’s experience? Virgins are noisy, whiny little shits—or this is all as natural as the blurb on the site proclaims, but the lack of a bass beat is making him itchy.

“Come on,” he mutters, poking absently at a holo. “Get to the good part.”

The good part, when it arrives, is worth the wait. It starts small: a moan here, a whimper there, but it takes only a few seconds before the kid is panting, hell, wailing for it. Tony puts down the soldering iron and sits back, settles in to watch. The screen’s full of his cock—which, nice enough—but Tony’s more interested in the way his eyes snap open just before he comes, this sudden, shocking blue. Contacts, obviously, but that doesn’t make it any less intense. Then there’s a sound, like it hurts him—yeah, that’s it, and Tony lets out a satisfied hum. Maybe delayed gratification isn’t total bullshit.

...Nah.

“Jarvis, rewind. Stop.” The kid’s eyes are scrunched up, hand a blur on his cock. “Loop.”

There’s that blue. Tony nudges the iron aside and kicks up his feet; electric nipple clamps can wait for another day. He eyes the kid’s chest with interest, before getting distracted by his face: bright red now, either from a blush or Hill slapping him between takes. His eyes are a little wet, and mouth a lot wet; he looks like he’s not even out of college. If he even went to college. He has that dazed high-school drop-out look to him. Dumb and pretty, Tony’s favorite.

And cut, Tony thinks, tracking the come as it splatters on his abs, the way they contract in reaction. Triple threat.

Still, while S.H.I.E.L.D. prefers them young—and of course they do; there’s a market for everything, but there’s niche, and then there’s ass wrinkles and death by Viagra—their headliners in the past have always geared more toward the lower hanging fruit, and Tony preferred it that way. The kids are all fun and games until they have that one extra drink and throw it up in your R8. With interest.

“Sir?” Jarvis interrupts his trip down godawful memory lane. The smell alone—

“Yeah?”

“A new video has been uploaded to the site under the category you instructed I track. It is titled ‘Steve and the Fucking Machine.’ Shall I play it?”

“Uh, yes? Immediately? I know I programmed you better than to ask, Jarvis.”

“Yes, sir.”

The video’s shot in one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s many nondescript rooms. It’s an improvement from the artistic vision of the colorblind set designers they’d hired in the past, but everything’s too—bland, too clean. You would think the kid was there to get sterilized, not fucked. Maybe that’s why he looks so nervous.

There’s no table in the room, nothing to get strapped to, just a large white rug. It looks about as comfortable as a doormat, but the kid curls his toes in like it’s a luxury, kneading it while someone slides the fuck machine into the frame.

Tony sits up and squints. “Hey. Which model is that.”

“That is the Mark IV.”

“I thought that dick looked familiar.” It isn’t as impressive as the real thing, but as far as silicone replicas built pantless and buzzed in the middle of the night go, it’s not half bad. When he gets around to the upgrade, he thinks he’ll get his balls done too. “And Fury said he’d carve out his other eye before he used it in a production.”

“I believe that was a hyperbole, sir.”

On screen, the kid’s eyeing it like it’s some kind of torture device, and sure, Tony’s big, but come on. The innocent newcomer act is getting stale.

“Have you done this before?” someone asks from behind the camera, a scratchy voice Tony doesn’t recognize. Probably one of the newer directors. “Any sort of penetration?”

The camera cuts to the kid’s face as he shakes his head and mumbles _no_ , and Tony groans out loud and wishes he had popcorn to throw at the screen. Enough of this scripted bullshit.

“Jarvis, get me the security feed.” He scratches his chin while the screen goes dark. “And make some popcorn.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tony? Tony.” _Pepper._ Grainy video from the cheap ass security cameras Fury installed pops up on the screen just as she comes up behind him, massive stack of papers in hand. She stops by his chair and frowns. “What are you doing.”

“Keeping an eye on my investments,” he says, which is not untrue.

“For the last four hours,” Jarvis supplies, and Pepper raises her eyebrows.

“Yes, thank you, Jarvis, that will be all.” He spins the chair around and narrowly manages to avoid kicking her shins. “Are those for me? You can just put them on the pile over there, no, in the corner. On the, uh, the floor there. That’s it.”

“You still haven’t signed these? For God’s sake, even you can’t have been spying on the studio for three days.”

“I am a busy man,” he says, and gestures vaguely at the work table when she fails to look impressed. “See? Busy. Working.” The nipple clamps aren’t fit to clamp anything just yet, but she doesn’t have to know that. He snaps them in her direction. “Wanna help me test them out?”

“On you? Of course. Anything for science.” She looks triumphant when Tony hastily rolls his chair away, clamps held far, far out of her reach. “I’m going out to lunch—on your money, thanks boss—and when I come back I want all of those—who is that?”

She stops to stare at the screen, eyes a little glazed, as Jarvis helpfully zooms in on the action.

“Some new kid,” Tony says, and has to talk over the sudden rush of noise from the feed as Pepper turns up the volume. “Not important. Pepper. Pepper, listen to me.”

“Have you ever done this before?” plays again, and Tony grudgingly turns back to the vid. That’s Barton on camera, but the director is a short, balding man who’s too grubby to look so self-important. New, and not very good, if the scowl on Barton’s face is any clue. “Any sort of penetration?” 

“Not with the uh, machine,” says the kid, and yeah, _surprise,_ “not with anyone else, but—”

“No, no. Look, nobody wants the life story, all right? Just put your head down and say no. Look shy.”

Tony snorts and Pepper shushes him. On screen, the kid looks halfway to mutinous; Tony’s almost interested again.

“I thought the goal was to keep it organic?”

The director waves his hand, dismissive. “That’s how Hill does it. Me, I like to be involved. Hands-on. And I’m running the show here, so can we stop wasting time? All right? Just do what I tell you to. Head down.”

The kid’s head drops like a string’s been cut, until his chin nearly touches his chest.

“Not that much, look up, look up a little. A little—more.” His chin moves up about an inch. The director does a frustrated hop. “Come on, look at me. Work with me here.”

“Sorry,” says the kid, not quite guileless. “Is that not right? I’m just doing what you tell me to.”

Pepper laughs drowns out the director’s reply, and she shakes her head when Tony raises his eyebrows. “It’s like something you would do.”

“What, this childish display of insubordination? Please. I would do so much worse.”

“I can’t imagine you taking direction at all,” she continues. “It’s the one thing I think you’re just—incapable of doing.”

That gets his attention. “I am not _incapable._ I just choose not to.”

She narrows her eyes. “Like you chose not to sign those papers? Or attend the Board of Director’s meeting _you_ called? Did I say one thing, I’m sorry, there’s a whole list of things you can’t do. Let’s start with being responsible, and punctual, and—”

“Okay, Pepper,” Tony says, “I’mma let you finish, but he’s about to take my cock, so shut up for a second.”

She purses her lips and does, miraculously, shut up, but only after shaking her head in disbelief and saying: ”Your... Really, Tony?”

He ignores her, because there are more interesting things happening on screen. Jarvis switches back to HD at his command, and he thinks he can make out every individual pore on the kid’s skin. That’s usually guaranteed to be an unpleasant visual, but Tony finds himself appreciating Barton’s work this time, the slow pan of the camera down his body. He’s on his hands and knees on that cheap rug, red faced and biting at the corner of his mouth—already prepped, and Tony makes a mental note to check that footage later—and he looks almost as pretty as the machine settled in behind him.

Tony takes in the sleek lines of the Mark IV and smiles. Almost.

“This is the model with voice recognition, isn’t it?” Pepper asks distractedly. Barton’s on the ball—or, well, on the silicone version of Tony’s dick as it nudges up against the kid’s flinching hole, and Tony realizes, almost as an afterthought, that he’s hard. 

“No, that was III,” he says, belated, trying to decide if Pepper will hit him for jerking off next to her, and how much harder she’d hit if he asked her to do the honors. 

“Then what’s different about this one,” she murmurs, and at his lack of reply, slowly turns to face him. “Please tell me you didn’t open a new line just because you shaped it after your dick.”

“Don’t be crude,” Tony says, “it’s not just _shaped_ after it.” 

“Oh my God,” she says, just as the kid goes, “Okay, uh—oh—oh—” and starts getting fucked in earnest by some seriously beautiful machinery. Tony rubs a hand over his crotch, shifts his hips, and on the next blink, he’s there on that screen, his dick attached to his body instead of a substitute to polished chrome. He’s the one punching short, shocked noises out of the new kid; the one making him go, “slo—w, slower, ngh—”; the one Barton zooms in on; the one making millions of men and women across the world come. 

Millions.

“Hey, Pepper,” he says, mouth dry. “Remember when I wanted to be a porn star and you shot me down?”

“That was last week,” Pepper says absently. Her hand’s twitching where it rests against her thigh, and Tony tries very hard not to think about the last time they fucked. Bad idea, he reminds himself. Worst idea. And not the fun kind, either; Pepper is bossy and bites. 

“Then you’ve had plenty of time to reconsider.” 

She doesn’t even bother to look at him. “Tony, please. Can we save this conversation for later, preferably after I’ve pulled out the cue cards?”

“We haven’t had it that often.”

“Jarvis?”

“Nine times, Miss Potts, not counting the ones you aborted by walking out.” 

“Thank you.”

“Okay,” Tony says, because it’s hard to argue against cold, hard facts, and he doesn’t have time to program Jarvis to lie right now. “But doesn’t the frequency indicate to you how serious—” 

“No, because you also frequently whine about wanting to buy amusement parks, and sending complaints to Madame Tussauds about your wax figure’s receding hairline—”

“And I’m dead serious about both of those things.” The hairline one, in particular, grates. Pepper has managed to intercept every angry letter he’s sent so far, but she’s bound to slip up eventually. 

Pepper tears her eyes away from the screen to scowl at him. “You wouldn’t last a day. And that’s saying Fury gave you chance instead of laughing you out. Tony, you frustrate people to the point of tears. I use waterproof mascara because of you.” 

“Liar,” Tony says mildly. “You use it for the extra curl it gives your lashes.”

Pepper turns away, but she’s smiling. “My point stands.” Then she shakes her head. “How you remember things like that, but not what time you have to be up in the morning—” 

“Gifted,” Tony says, and: “Come on, Pepper. I want to. Let me.”

“You always do what you want,” she says, resigned because they both know he doesn’t need her—or anyone else's—permission, but, Tony thinks, as far as gestures go, it’s a nice one. She should appreciate it.

“No,” he says, “half the time I don’t even know what that is,” and very carefully does not mention Stane. She tenses anyway and he leans back, lets her watch in silence, wonders whether he’s getting more or less manipulative with age. 

In the video, the kid’s dropped to his elbows, shoulders straining as he tries to keep himself upright. The flush has spread from his face to his chest, and he’s rocking with the force of the machine’s thrusts. One big hand is curled around his cock and pulling himself off in time, and it’s—good. Really good. Quality, like they keep advertising. 

Tony could do better.

Pepper sighs like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. “Just don’t do any permanent damage. _Please.”_

* * *

If Tony walks into S.H.I.E.L.D. Studios like he owns it, that’s because he kind of does. His name isn’t on any contracts and he doesn’t have to sign things, but it’s undeniable that the reason S.H.I.E.L.D. grew big and stayed big was because of Stark Industries’ backing and the stuff Tony invents when he’s bored of alternate energy sources and other things that would change the world. The studio’s market is his market, and their fanbase is really his fanbase, even if they don’t know it—yet.

The place hasn’t changed much since he was last here. Darcy’s still holding up the front, drinking stale coffee while she systematically destroys a piece of gum and fucks around on Facebook.

“Hey, Mr. Stark. Long time, no drop by to terrorize the folks.”

“How long have you been chewing that,” he says by way of greeting, and leans back before she can pop it in his face. “Just tell me you don’t put it behind your ear when you go to sleep at night.”

“No, I put it in my—”

“Stark.” Hill rounds the corner and cuts off what was bound to be a very interesting story. She looks tired, hair unusually messy. She narrows her eyes when he tells her as much. “What are you doing here?” 

“I missed you guys,” he says. “Well, not you, specifically, but—”

“Director Fury is busy,” she interrupts, and her hands twitch like she wants to smooth her hair back into place. Predictable. “If you’re here on business, a conference call—”

“Nah, I’m just here to wander around and eat your food. Point me to the cream puffs and I’ll be out of your—hair,” he says, and doesn’t wait to hear her reply, just walks through the nearest door. It’s doubtful she knows they even have cream puffs.

A little bit of walking finds him on set number eight, where some sort of dungeon theme is being put into place, if dungeons had lava lamps and desks lifted from a grade school classroom somewhere. He makes a mental note to talk to Fury about the set designers, because _damn,_ and is on his way to the craft services table when he spots something big and shiny.

“Thor!” He decides to abort the manly arm pat when he sees how oiled up Thor is, and settles for a vague waving motion instead. “My favourite illegal alien. How are you?”

“Still bigger than you, Stark,” someone says, and he turns to see a flash of red hair and a great ass.

“Hello, Natalie. Sorry, Natasha—which one was it again?”

“I think you preferred ‘that crazy bitch,’” she says, and Tony takes a second to wonder where the hell she’d heard him—

“You should really stop listening in on my private conversations.“

“You should stop being so loud,” she calls back over her shoulder, and Tony has to think really hard about her ass to keep himself from starting something that would end with him in a chokehold. He turns back to Thor, who’s been watching the proceedings with that same, mildly amused smile on his face.

“You’re my only friend,” Tony tells him. He takes a breath. “And you smell like coconut.”

“Dr. Banner is in the back,” Thor says, and that’s helpful, but also worryingly perceptive. Tony eyes him—but not his cock, because yeah, bigger, but hey, only by a little—and decides to push his luck.

“I’ll see Bruce when I see him. But how’s it going, Thor? Really. How’s your brother doing in that, uh, mental institution, was it?”

“You jest, Stark,” Thor says after a moment, brow furrowed. Too easy. “Surely you heard of his escape?”

Tony will never admit that it takes him a second to get it. “What—did you just make a funny? Jesus. Who gave you a sense of humor? Warn a guy.”

Thor beams, face creasing up like he’s so pleased he can’t contain it, and Tony has to laugh, because who fucking knew. Every other interaction he’s had with Thor involved eating, or enthusiastic praise over all the electrical shock toys Tony makes that Thor uses almost exclusively. He’d always thought Thor was a little slow, and Tony doesn’t usually like being proven wrong, but this time he’ll make an exception. 

Thor smacks an oily hand on his shoulder and Tony only stumbles a little. He departs with something that sounds a lot like “fare thee well.” 

Tony grabs the arm of a PA who’s passing by and leans down to say, “You know he’s not normal, right? People from Norway don’t actually talk like that.”

“Um,” the PA says, blinking and looking a little terrified. He’s carrying three water bottles and a sandwich, which Tony points to.

“Are you going to eat that?”

“No, it’s for--”

“Great, thanks. Mm, tuna, my favourite.” He gives the sputtering PA a thumbs up and heads for the stairs. He could have guessed Bruce would be in the most drafty, inconvenient place in the studio, because it’s the man’s mission in life to be as miserable as possible. And lo and behold, Tony finds him sitting in the near dark, hunched over his desk like an old man and frowning like he’s in the middle of a difficult bowel movement. 

“Tony?” he says, blinking through the lights Tony flips on. “What are you doing here?”

“Why do people keep asking me that?”

“Because you never go out of your way unless you’re up to something,” Bruce says reasonably, pushing his glasses up his nose. “And that makes people nervous.”

“Well, you can rest easy,” Tony says. “I was just bored.” 

“That actually makes me more nervous.”

No faith. Tony sighs deeply and leans over Bruce’s shoulder to peer at the papers on his desk. Distracting Bruce with his work is the most efficient way to avoid being psychoanalyzed. He picks through the pile and pulls one out at random, a page from a script that’s been axed, and starts to read. 

“This is,” he says, minutes later, “utterly filthy _smut._ What happened to all that bullshit about respecting your craft, huh? You use ‘dick’ more than ‘the,’ for God’s sake.” 

Bruce shrugs. “I’m giving them what they want. Raunchy dialogue is in.”

“As is gross repetition?” 

“That’s rude,” Bruce says with a sigh. “I didn’t ask for critique.”

“You need to get laid,” Tony says, gingerly putting the page back. “One day all this sexual frustration is going to make you implode. And you know I can hook you up with whoever. It’s offensive how you won’t take advantage of—well, me.”

“You’re not here to talk about my sex life,” Bruce says, ignoring Tony’s correction of _non-existent_. “What do you want?”

“I brought you a sandwich,” Tony says. His last play.

Bruce catches it absently and says, “Thank you.” And then: “Hey, tuna,” as he unwraps it and takes a bite. “Now, what do you want?”

“Okay,” Tony says, “fine. I need you to back me on this.”

“What you need,” comes a voice, “is to get off my goddamn lawn.”

Tony sighs and turns to face the man loitering in the shadows like some sort of caped crusader. God, he still hasn’t gotten rid of the eye-patch; seeing him always makes Tony feel like he’s at a funeral, and filled with the desperate urge to laugh. “Fury. People kept telling me you were busy.”

“Never too busy for you, Stark.” Fury bares his teeth. “Let’s take a walk and leave Dr. Banner to his work.”

Bruce, the little fucker, continues eating Tony’s sandwich, and waves. Fury leads him outside and backs him into a corner, giving him the one-eyed glare. 

“What.”

“I want in,” Tony says, because Fury isn’t capable of being buttered up, and he’s out of sandwiches. 

“In what?”

“The family.” He grins. “The business. The works. Come on, Fury, make me a star.”

It sounds like it hurts Fury to laugh, but he does. “What? You want _in?_ Stark, you’re not even up for consideration. You’re on the goddamn blacklist. On every blacklist I have. What even gave you the _idea—”_

“Well,” Tony says, “I am a handsome devil.” 

“You are a menace to society. You are contrary, volatile, and self-centered, you—”

“You skipped brilliant and filthy rich,” Tony says. “And helpful.” 

“And you are old,” Fury says, triumphant.

Tony smiles. “Let’s not forget ‘what’s keeping this studio afloat.’ Or were you getting to that?”

“What,” Fury says with a laugh, “you think you’re the only backer we have?”

“No, but I’ll bet I’m the biggest one by far. What would you do if I pulled out? You’d have to change your specialty, for one thing. Maybe you could be known for your awful set design.” 

“Are you threatening me, Stark?”

“No,” Tony says. “Threat implies I might not follow through.” 

Fury stares at him for a long moment before rubbing a hand over his face. “Just. What, exactly, do you want.”

“Let’s start with one scene,” Tony says, because he’s generous after he’s gotten his way. It’s best not to push too far; he doesn’t want to break Fury, after all. Just shake him up a bit. “And we’ll go from there.” 

“One scene,” Fury repeats grimly, and Tony rocks back on his heels. 

“Will I get paid for that or—no? All right. So how do we seal the deal in this business?” Tony holds out a hand and tilts his head, speculative. “Handjob?”

The way Fury stumbles violently back keeps him laughing for the rest of the day.

**Author's Note:**

> for questions and/or concerns, you can also hit me up on [tumblr](http://eleadore-bee.tumblr.com/) or [lj.](http://eleadore.livejournal.com/profile) thanks for reading.


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